


Aruba

by zulu



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, for:shutterbug_12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-22
Updated: 2009-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Close your eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aruba

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shutterbug_12 (shutterbug)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/gifts).



> Written for shutterbug_12. Thanks to kuwdora for the beta.

Two seconds after Stacy walks in the door after the most hellish commute she can remember, Greg appears behind her and says, "Close your eyes."

Stacy shoots him a suspicious look over her shoulder. The _last_ thing she's going to do is close her eyes so that Greg can torture her. This morning's snow turned to slush and then to ice, so that driving home she was hunched forward and gripping the steering wheel, peering out through the windshield wipers as she tapped the brakes every few blocks, never certain that she'd have the traction to stop the car from fishtailing. She is _not_ going to voluntarily put herself in a vulnerable position, when Greg might do anything--tickle her, kiss her, _destroy_ something. "No," she says, but it's not a firm denial, only a postponement until she's on firmer ground. He's up to something.

"I'm serious." Greg nearly bounces on the balls of his feet. He's not quite smiling; he looks torn between glee and nervy avoidance, and that only makes Stacy more suspicious.

There are times when they've played this game, when they're making love, and then she trusts him so completely that she'd respond before he'd finished asking. The tail end of a ninety-hour work week is _not_ the time for him to expect her to give in. Every morning this week he's been pouting when she slips out of bed at five o'clock. Or he would have been, if he'd woken up for more than a complaining mumble.

She narrows her eyes even further. Greg is never serious if he can avoid it. If he'd really wanted to win points, he wouldn't be trying to surprise her. He'd have made dinner, turned up the heat, greeted her at the door with a drink and a kiss. He's clearly been home a while. He's dressed in thick socks, sweatpants, and a big sweater that Stacy had hoped to steal, hopefully still warm from his body and smelling like his skin. Stacy wouldn't be surprised if he's already fed himself on takeout or sandwiches, or he's forgotten that either of them need to eat at all. "Let me take my coat off first."

He has to be playing with her. This isn't the Greg who's been making her life miserable for the few hours that she's been home in the last few weeks. Stacy's barely had time to notice, but she knows he isn't happy at work. He's been sullen, snapping and hunching his shoulders as if every time she asks how his day was, she's forcing him to relive day-long interrogation sessions in which he gave up the information his persecuters wanted but they kept up the torture just to be sure. Stacy almost misses the days when he'd arrive home, belly-flop onto the mattress beside her, and groan before giving a five-minute diatribe on the exact degree of idiocy of all the people around him. It's better than the bitter sneering about his boss, his frustration at being stuck in the clinic, and his seething anger over Wilson, who's on a saving-his-marriage kick and won't play with him. Stacy has no idea what's changed.

The smile twitching around Greg's lips disappears when he remembers he's 'serious' for a second or longer, and then it slips back into place, so that his dimples appear. For a moment, his whole face shows that he thinks he's the most clever person in the world, and then a second later he's frowning ferociously. Stacy knows the signs, and they're beginning to affect her. He's excited, but nervous; he wants something, but he's trying to convince himself she's going to turn him down so that he won't have to be disappointed. Stacy takes her time hanging up her coat. Despite the thick sweater she's wearing, she shivers. It's freezing out and she hasn't actually seen the sun in days; February has gotten so deep inside her that she feels like there are ice crystals in every cell. But suddenly, her pulse is thundering; she feels like she can't move, not if it means facing Greg's uneasy impatience.

"Are you _ever_ going to close your eyes?"

Stacy smiles at him, wrinkling her nose, teasing. Giving in immediately ruins the game, and she won't let him see what she's thinking. She goes to the couch, taking up a blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders. "Come and warm me up," she says, tugging Greg into the living room.

He refuses to let her take his hand--he's hiding something behind his back.

Stacy glances up at him, over her shoulder, and her heart nearly stops. The ice in her stomach suddenly has nothing to do with winter; it's curiosity, filling her until it's apprehension. He's going to say something, ask something--and the ice seems to melt all at once, filling her instead with a heat she doesn't know what to do with. Greg's hiding something, a surprise, his eyes gleaming with mischief, and he wants her to stop and pay attention--that's nothing new--but the way he seems nervous as hell at the same time that he's too excited to stay still, all come together, like a finished pattern. The hummingbird race of her heart seems to spring the question into Stacy's mind: _Is he--?_ She can't show it. She refuses to finish the question, even in her mind.

Greg sits down on the couch, length-wise, and Stacy sits between his legs, leaning back against his chest. She's warmed through almost before she knows it. She can hear the wind howling around the windows, and that makes it all the more delicious to feel Greg's bodyheat envelop her, his size as he wraps himself around her, the cold tip of his nose digging into the back of her neck and making her shiver. "Stop it," she says, wriggling, and Greg laughs and rubs his nose against her again. His heart is thudding near her ear, and Stacy's sure she won't breathe until she knows what he's holding.

"Greg, what did you get?" Asked in the same tone she'd ask a four year old where all the jello she'd made for dinner had disappeared to.

"Oh, nothing." Greg's hand slips down her stomach to her thigh under the blanket, warmth turning sensuous, taking his turn to draw out the surprise.

Stacy digs him with her elbow. "Greg. Seriously."

"Oh, seriously?" She can feel his grin this time; the moist heat of his breath down her neck as he leans closer, the rasp of his stubble against her throat, just under her ear.

It's going to happen. It's going to happen like this. Something small enough to fit in one hand, to hide behind his back--Stacy doesn't know what she'll do or what she'll say, her mind blank with possibilities.

"I got you this," he whispers against her neck. That murmur is enough to send Stacy shivering again. Greg's hand appears in front of her like a magician's.

It's not a jewellry box.

Stacy's breath falls out of her. Whatever she was thinking, it couldn't have been a ring. Greg never would have done it like this. But disappointment doesn't strike her; instead, she's taking what he's offered her, her breath catching all over again.

"Plane tickets?"

"To Aruba," Greg says. He's very still behind her. "For Sunday."

Her case finished today. He must have known.

He knows her. God, how he knows her. Stacy leans back against him, her heart slowing, her breathing coming easily. Greg's arm tightens around her; she feels like she could sink into him, supported, forever. "You shouldn't have," she says.

And, knowing she's answering a question he'll never ask, she whispers, "Yes."


End file.
